Only A Dance
by Alydia Rackham
Summary: Sherlock must attend a high-society ball, undercover, and John will NOT go with him. Instead, he forces Sherlock to ask Molly. At the last minute, Sherlock decides that the best cover for them would be husband and wife-but will this bring trouble with their suspect, a man who seems to desire most the things he cannot have?
1. Chapter 1

_This is in response to one of the lovely prompts I received today! It blossomed into what I hope will be an entertaining story for you! (and I undoubtedly will be using many of the other prompts—they're just too good to waste). This takes place just a little before series 2:)_

_Enjoy!_

_VVVVV_

Only a Dance

Alydia Rackham

"No."

Sherlock frowned into his microscope, then glanced slightly up and to the right at his flatmate. John swiped the newspaper off the kitchen table and flapped it open loudly, hiding his face.

"That was a rather vehement answer," Sherlock remarked.

"Whelp, it's the only answer you're gonna get," John said through the paper. Sherlock sat up straighter, his frown deepening.

"It's only a party."

"It's a ball," John slapped the paper shut, folded it and looked straight back at Sherlock, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"A party with longer dresses."

"There is _dancing_, Sherlock," John pointed out. Sherlock sighed, and leaned his face back into the microscope, letting the bright circles of light consume his vision.

"Yes, there is usually dancing at a ball."

"Yes, and I'll not be going dancing with a _man_."

"So take a woman," Sherlock suggested.

"Oh yes? Who?" John snapped, tossing the paper down on the table and folding his arms. "You've managed to scare every single one of them off."

Sherlock smirked.

"And what would _you _be doing all the while, hm? If I _could _get a date?" John went on. "Skulking around corners, looking _entirely _suspicious and anti-social? You yourself said that this gentleman's peculiar penchant has to be found out by _talking to his friends_. And that doesn't mean grabbing them by their shirt collars or breaking into the upstairs apartments. You have to be polite, engaging—_normal_. And at this sort of thing, it helps if you have a pretty lady with you, not some guy."

"Pretty ladies don't help anything," Sherlock muttered. "They only distract."

"Distract who?" John countered. "The other people, or you?"

Sherlock looked up at him without moving his head.

"You really oughtn't wear such a violent-patterned sweater. It hurts my eyes and doesn't do you any good, either."

John huffed and searched the heavens.

"I'm not going with you unless we both have dates. But _I've _got no prospects, and the chances of our digging up even _one _girl who would be willing to spend an evening with _you_…" He sighed, and shook his head. "And if we can only get _one _girl between us, then she'll have to go with _you, _since _you _seem to know what you're looking for and you won't tell me—"

"You are making this much more complicated than it is," Sherlock cut in, focusing the microscope. "This is not a social engagement, it is a robbery investigation, and as usual I would appreciate your assistance in the process."

John's mouth tightened—Sherlock saw it out of the corner of his vision—and his flatmate went up on his toes for an instant. Then, he turned and walked stiffly into the sitting room. Sherlock returned his attention to his specimen. Studied it for several minutes, pulled back and turned to scribble a few notes on an already-full piece of notebook paper, then pulled out a clean slide to start anew.

"Here," John came marching back into the kitchen, shoving Sherlock's own phone at him.

"What, I'm busy," Sherlock set the slide down on the table with a click.

"No, you're not," John pushed the phone at his face. "It's ringing."

"Ringing who—?" Sherlock couldn't help but take hold of the phone—it was an inch away from his ear, anyhow. The phone at the other end rang once. Sherlock looked at John sharply.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Assisting," John answered. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort—

_"Hello?"_

A light, slightly surprised feminine voice spoke into his ear.

His face cleared. He sat up straight.

"Molly."

_"Sherlock!"_ she cried. _"Um…Hi! What…Is everything okay? Do you need something at the lab?"_

"No, not at the moment," Sherlock faked a half smile whilst sending a withering glare at John. John just lifted his chin and folded his arms again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits.

_"Well, I…Um…What's going on?"_

Sherlock ground his teeth. But there was nothing for it now. John had laid a perfect trap.

"I'm working on a case," he began. "Involving a certain billionaire Alfred Tombs and his two sons, Adam and Wilson. Alfred Tombs is very ill and isn't expected to live more than a few months, and so he has already begun dividing his wealth between his sons. Each son will receive—and has already received—an obscene amount of money, as well as several pieces of valuable property. Enough to make any reasonable man completely satisfied. However, a certain gold bracelet was willed to Adam by their deceased mother—it is not as beautiful or monetarily valuable as the jewelry given to Wilson—but it is the only piece that was specifically set aside for Adam, and apparently the old lady stated that under no circumstances should Wilson receive it. Recently, it was stolen. At the moment, Wilson Tombs seems to be the most likely suspect. One angle we've considered is that the bracelet is a key to a larger treasure, hidden somewhere. Another, which we wish to explore this evening at Wilson's thirtieth birthday party, is that Wilson Tombs has taken the bracelet simply because he _must _possess that which he simply cannot have. An unlikely angle, to be certain, but interesting nonetheless, and one that I am not willing to exclude."

Molly hesitated. Took a breath.

_"So…"_

Sherlock drew a deep breath. Locked his jaw. Glowered poisonously at John—who just gave him a look.

Sherlock shut his eyes. And resigned himself.

"What I mean to say, is…" He paused. Gripped the phone a bit tighter. "Molly…Would you do me the honor of attending a ball with me this evening?"

Silence answered him.

Sherlock's eyes opened. He frowned hard.

Still silence.

Inexplicably, his stomach tightened.

Then, she laughed.

_"I_…_Of course. Yes. Thank you."_ She laughed again, sounding breathless. _"I…What time will you pick me up?"_

"Pick you up?" Sherlock repeated.

John's eyes flashed, and he stepped toward him.

"You've got to pick her up, Sherlock," he muttered tightly. "It's a _date_—"

"Half seven, that should be sufficient," Sherlock said quickly. "Have you got something appropriate to wear? If you haven't, it'll be useless—you must look as though you belong there, rather than at a hospital."

John groaned and slapped a hand to his face. Sherlock looked up at him, thrown.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" he demanded, keeping his voice low. John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"You're hopeless…"

"_Yes, I think I've got something," _Molly answered him. "_Wait…Will you be bringing me a corsage or anything to wear?"_

"A corsage?" Sherlock repeated her again.

"A cor…_Yes_, for heaven's sake, _yes_," John said, planting his hands on the other side of the table and giving Sherlock a severe glance.

"Yes," Sherlock said into the phone.

"_All right_," Molly said—he could hear her smile. _"I'll see you at…half seven, then. Thank you."_

"Goodbye," Sherlock said, and hung up. The breath he let out shook for some reason. "I don't know which was more harrowing," he muttered, setting his phone down carefully. "Talking to her or being browbeaten by you."

"What are you so afraid of?" John stood up, looked at him sideways, then headed toward the parlor. "It's only a dance."

_To be continued…_

_Review!_


	2. Chapter 2

_I'm so very glad you're liking this! It's getting fun! :D _

_Enjoy!_

_VVVV_

CHAPTER TWO

"I despise ties," Sherlock growled at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace as he secured his black bow tie. "Remind me of nooses."

"Since when have you been squeamish?" John shot back, noisily flopping down in his chair, then reaching over to pick up his teacup and saucer.

"I dislike the idea of being hanged," Sherlock glared at him sideways. "If that makes me squeamish, then I'll own to it."

"Don't know what you're so worked up about." John took a sip of tea. "It's not as if this is your first date or anything."

Sherlock cleared his throat, straightened and assessed the upper half of his sharp, tuxedo-clad figure. He did not look over at John. Still, he felt John's arms sag.

"Wait—is it? It isn't, is it?"

Sherlock's jaw tightened. He said nothing.

"It is!" John cried. "I can't believe it—really?"

Sherlock sighed laboriously.

"Nothing—I repeat, _nothing_—could prove to be more of a waste of my time than dabbling in casual dating. A lot of nonsense and play-acting, and for what? Nothing useful at all."

"Yeah, okay, going on a bunch of casual dates when you're a kid probably could be called a waste of time, sure," John said. "But at our age it isn't really _casual _anymore—I mean, _I'd _like to think I might meet a girl I could fall in love with—get married, have a family—"

"Why on _earth _would you want to do _that?" _Sherlock asked in disgust, turning sideways and glowering at his reflection.

John groaned.

"You're an idiot."

"Ah. He cannot come up with a viable counterattack, so he resorts to name-calling. Brilliant, John."

"You're still an idiot."

The grandfather clock in Mrs. Hudson's section of the house rang out a pensive seven o'clock.

"Better get going," John urged.

"Why?" Sherlock turned around and faced him. "We're not that far from her flat. The taxi will get me there in ten minutes, she'll get in and we'll be off five minutes earlier than we had planned—"

John was already shaking his head.

"What now? What?" Sherlock demanded.

"No, she'll not be ready by half seven, let alone five or ten minutes earlier than that."

"Whyever not?"

"Women take a long time," John explained. "Fixing their hair, their makeup, jewelry—"

"Like I said, nonsense," Sherlock raised his eyebrows pointedly, folding his arms.

"No, it's just the facts," John answered, folding his own arms but staying seated. "And for heaven's sake, do _not _just sit in the taxi and have him honk the horn at her."

Sherlock glanced off, unbalanced, then frowned at John.

"Is there…something I'm missing?"

"_Yes_," John sighed emphatically, gesturing as he talked. "Get _out _of the taxi, go up to her flat, and if she or her flatmate lets you in, go in and wait for her to get ready. When she comes into the room, give her the corsage—put it on her, rather—help her into her jacket, let her go out in front of you, open every single door for her, and _do _remember to give her your arm when you're going up steps so that she doesn't trip and fall over her long dress."

Sherlock stared at him woodenly, as if he had never seen him before.

"And…what is the point of all that?"

"_Manners_, Sherlock," John leaned toward him. "To be polite. She's your _date_."

"I've changed my mind," Sherlock said flatly, turning away. "A noose is quite appropriate for this occasion."

VVVVV

Sherlock stared out of the taxicab window as the night lights of London flashed past, the white carnation corsage in its box on the seat next to him. He laced his fingers together, squeezed, then rubbed one thumb hard against the other. Let go, closed his hands to fists, then gripped his fingers together again. Took a deep, but tight breath, then made his shoulders relax.

In no time at all, it seemed, the cab pulled up in front of Molly's building and stopped. Sherlock ground his teeth, closing his eyes briefly, then opened them and leaned toward the cabbie.

"Wait here. I'll just be a moment."

"Yes, sir," came the answer. Sherlock opened the door and swiftly climbed out, shut the door and adjusted his coat collar…

Turned back around, cursing at John under his breath, opened the door and retrieved the corsage. Slammed the door. He spun, huffed, and trotted up the stone steps and rang the bell. The brass peep-hole in the black-painted door eyed him disdainfully. He fought against making a face at it.

The next second, the latch worked loudly and the door swung open.

A young woman with flaming red hair, a face covered in freckles, and piercing green eyes stood within, dressed in gray sweatclothes. She glanced Sherlock up and down.

"You Molly's date?" she asked—and Sherlock could detect an edge in her tone. Sherlock drew himself up.

"My name is Sherlock Holmes," he answered. "And yes, I suppose I am her…" he glanced over the doorframe, the stoop, and then back at her. "…date." He faked another smile.

She watched him for a moment. Gave him a careful smile of her own. Held out her hand.

"I'm Jenny. Molly's flatmate."

Sherlock shook her hand. She nodded toward the entryway.

"Come in. She's still getting ready."

Sherlock stepped inside, following Jenny through a short, dim entryway. The door shut behind him. Jenny hurried up a short flight of steps that squeaked gratingly, and Sherlock trailed after her up into a mostly-white-furnished sitting room, with a line of windows straight ahead looking out over the back street. A lit fireplace and a telly stood to his right, a modest gray kitchenette off to his left, and doors to two separate bedrooms.

"Molly, he's here," Jenny called, striding in.

"I'll be right out," Molly's muffled voice answered. "Just pinning up this last bit."

Jenny turned and gave Sherlock a pointed look.

"You had better say something nice to her when she comes out," Jenny warned under her breath. "She's been working on herself for at least two hours."

Sherlock didn't know how to reply to that—so he didn't. Instead, he cast a hateful look down at the corsage box in his hand, then cast around at the various personal items in Molly's flat. Boring, boring, boring…

Hm. Strange.

His attention had just caught upon a crooked book case, and the peculiar pairing of Frankensteinand Pride and Prejudice sitting side by side, when one of the bedroom doors opened.

"All right, I think I'll do," Molly said, a little out of breath, and swept out into the sitting room.

Sherlock forgot about the books. And Jenny. And even the evil corsage.

The young woman who emerged wore a strapless, shimmering emerald dress that hugged her slender form and flattered it to its height—and the skirt flared out near the knees, reminiscent of a mermaid's fin. A sheer black-lace bolero jacket covered the ivory skin of her arms and back, and a dainty diamond necklace glittered at her throat. All of her softly-reddish hair had been piled on top of her head in seemingly careless yet perfect curls, with a few loose strands trailing down in the back. Long, sparkling droplet earrings made her neck look white and graceful, and she wore just enough makeup to make all her features glow, and to make Sherlock unable to look anyplace but her dark and dancing eyes.

_Molly_.

He thought her name—and he thought he commanded his mouth to say it. But nothing came out. Molly saw him, gave him a hesitant smile, and ducked her head.

"Come on then, twirl for me," Jenny urged, picking up a cup of coffee and leaning back against the counter.

"What?" Molly turned to her so that her earrings flashed like stars.

"Twirl," Jenny made just that motion with her finger. "We've got to see if this dress will do for dancing, after all."

"All right," Molly giggled, bent her arms at the elbows and risked a few spins.

The skirt flared out like a rapidly-opening flower, revealing her pale ankles and glittering silver shoes beneath. Sherlock swallowed. Something strange and uncomfortable was happening inside his chest.

Molly stopped, laughing, and briefly pressed her hand to her heart.

"Looks lovely, dear!" Jenny declared, smiling. "You'll be the belle of the ball." Jenny looked over at Sherlock. "All the other gentlemen will be jealous of you—you'll have to watch that she doesn't get stolen."

"Stop it, Jenny," Molly whispered—Sherlock saw her blush.

"I…erm…" Sherlock croaked, starting forward. He instantly halted, swallowed again, and gathered himself. "I brought this for you." He held out the corsage box.

"Oh!" Molly blinked at it, hesitated.

"Oh—yes," Sherlock stopped and popped the box open, and gingerly pulled out the flower. "It belongs on your wrist…I believe…" He almost just held it out to hand it to her, but she, beaming, reached out her left arm, palm down. Fumbling, Sherlock put the box down, stepped forward, stretched the band and slipped it around her hand, sliding it up to rest upon her wrist, having to use _both _his hands in the process. Her fingers felt soft, warm.

He secured the corsage firmly, then stepped back. She turned her hand back and forth, studying it, then looked up at him brightly.

"Thank you! It's very pretty."

Sherlock just nodded once, looking somewhere else.

"Shall we?" he asked.

"Sure," Molly said quickly. "Let me get my wrap…" She hurried to the closet, opened it and pulled out a long, black fleece cloak, then swung it around, put one arm through, then struggled to find the other arm.

Sherlock felt John spiritually slap him in the back of the head.

He strode forward, took hold of the cape and straightened it out so she could find the other arm hole, then helped it up onto her shoulders.

"Thank you," she smiled up at him again. "All set!"

He turned and took half a step toward the door. Stopped. Winced minutely. Then gestured out in front, indicating that she go first. Molly dipped her head and started forward, Sherlock following—and he sensed Jenny come right after him. When Molly started down the squeaky stairs, Jenny leaned toward Sherlock's shoulder.

"Well done. Couldn't have asked for a better compliment," she remarked. He shot a look down at her, readying to snap back at her about disobeying her earlier order…

He hesitated. Jenny just watched Molly, smiling, then gave Sherlock a warm look—_entirely _different from before. Not a _trace _of sarcasm. His brow furrowed.

"I didn't say anything," he reminded her.

She gave him a twinkling glance.

"Yes you did."

Sherlock straightened up and arched an eyebrow, eyeing her down his nose. She grinned.

"Have a good time!"

Sherlock broke away from her, not looking back, and charged down the stairs. Molly had already beaten him to opening the front door, but as they stepped outside, he pulled the door shut himself, and descended the steps beside her. Then, fearing another one of John's ghostly slaps, he pulled the taxi door open for her and waited for her to get in and get all of her skirts arranged before he shut the door. Impatiently, he swung around the back of the cab, pulled his own door open, climbed inside and slammed it shut.

"The Langham hotel, please," Sherlock told the driver, then adjusted the skirt of his coat.

"Rightoh," the cab driver agreed, put the car into gear and started off.

_To be continued…_

_Review!_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much, all of you! Glad you're happy!_

_Get your playlists ready! For this section, during the waltzing, I listened to youtube videos entitled thusly, exactly: "The Landler – The Sound Of Music," then "Edelweiss –Andre Rieu" And "Waltz . no .2-Shostakovich-Cvartet Nunta-Valsul Mirilor" And you must listen to them too. Because reasons. _

_Enjoy!_

_VVVVV _

CHAPTER THREE

Sherlock glanced over at Molly. The street lights played across her as they sped down the street, and she glanced interestedly all around them—then over at him. Sherlock quickly turned away. He cleared his throat again and shifted his shoulders, trying to rid himself of that tight, uncomfortable feeling in his chest.

"So, we are going to Wilson Tombs' thirtieth birthday party—" he began.

"To find out why he took his mother's bracelet," Molly finished. "Or—the bracelet his brother has. Had. Because his mother gave it to him and said Wilson couldn't have it."

"We're not certain it was him at all yet," Sherlock corrected. "But we are attending to explore the possibility of his guilt, and if it exists, then the reason for it."

"Right," Molly nodded. Sherlock watched out the windscreen.

"You are accompanying me to help me blend in with the other guests. The less you speak the better—especially since this situation and this stratum of society will doubtlessly prove rather foreign to you. Silence becomes you, Molly, and I can use that to my advantage. You'll provide balance to my silhouette, make it easier for couples to approach me and start talking, and you won't have to do any of the work."

"Actually—" Molly started. "When my…Well, before my mum died, my dad was in the military—"

"This is not the time for storytelling, Molly," Sherlock cut her off. "Now, we'll doubtlessly meet Wilson Tombs at the receiving line when we enter, but if we can, we'll wish to avoid him and converse with his close friends and family until we have a clearer picture of what we're dealing with. Also, as to keep from arousing suspicion, we'll need to join in one or two of the dances. Can't be helped, I'm afraid."

"What's our cover?" she asked. Sherlock looked over at her. She waited.

"Cover?"

She smiled crookedly and lifted a shoulder.

"You know, like in all those old…spy movies," she explained. "The fake story you tell everybody. I mean, we can't exactly say 'Oh, we're a couple of detectives and we're here to spy on all of you to see who stole a bracelet.'"

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Obviously not," he said. "We just won't mention—"

"They'll expect us to make introductions at the door," Molly interrupted. "And they'll probably announce us to the rest of…everyone."

"Well…" Sherlock shifted in his seat., frowning at the fact that she'd pointed that out. "We will need to be equals, socially, so that the men will feel comfortable around you but not distracted, and the women cannot feel threatened. So—"

"So husband and wife, then," Molly finished.

Sherlock's mouth twitched. He had been about to suggest "siblings"—but now that she'd made _her _suggestion out loud, "siblings" sounded like a poor cousin. A poor, stupid cousin.

"Stop interrupting what I'm about to say," he admonished. "We'll use our real names, however. No time to get used to any others. Well—you will use _my _last name."

"Why should _I _change _my _name?" she countered. Sherlock stared at her. She looked off, suppressing a smile. He still stared.

"Here we are," the driver announced as the cab slowed. Sherlock pried his attention from Molly's cryptic grin, shoved his door open, and climbed out into the chilly night air. He strode around the cab and opened the door for her. She stepped out, reflexively reaching into thin air—

He caught her hand. Helped lift her to her feet. She stepped onto the kerb and gazed up before her, her eyes widening, her whole figure bathed in reflected golden light.

"Wow," she whispered. Sherlock turned, and glanced at the building.

The Langham hotel, built in the late 1800's—pale, bold, elegantly-decorated stone, with an entryway crowned by flying banners. All kinds of gleaming cars—Rolls Royces, limousines, Bentlys—lined up to drop off their glittering passengers.

"Shall we?" Sherlock asked, sensing John's spirit raise a threatening hand again. Sherlock held out his left arm to her. She canted her head, smiled at him, and wrapped her fingers around his arm. Together, they strode toward the door, the night sounds of London traffic, and the tapping of footsteps on the sidewalk, surrounding them.

Sherlock made himself watched her step, to make certain she didn't trip as they climbed the stairs—he _knew _John would ask about it later. A butler opened the door for them, and they stepped inside.

Several couples, dressed to the nines, strode in with them. The butlers took Sherlock's coat and Molly's wrap, and they continued on through the lavish, grand entryway, through a side door, a passage, and then…

Music from a stringed orchestra swelled out toward them, and Sherlock could smell various finger-foods, and candles burning.

And the hallway opened up into a shimmering white ballroom.

A towering ceiling, hung with brilliant glowing chandeliers, which made the walls glimmer as if they were made of opal. Majestic pillars marched down both sides of the great room, and swirling patterns decorated the floor.

People, young and old, all extravagantly and colorfully dressed, filled the ballroom to its edges. Many sat in chairs all around the perimeter, laughing and drinking champagne. And a great number of them swirled and spun on the dance floor to the tune of a swaying waltz.

"Good evening," a voice came from their left. Sherlock pulled his observation from the room to the older, mustached man in a tuxedo, who stood with his hands clasped behind his back.

"Good evening," Sherlock answered.

"Your names please, sir," the man asked.

"Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied smoothly. He felt Molly's fingers tighten on his arm. The man turned and faced the crowd.

"Mr. and Mrs. Sherlock Holmes," the man declared, so those nearby could hear him without mistake.

Sherlock and Molly stayed where they were for a moment, then started forward.

Sherlock caught movement. Braced himself and halted.

"So, you came after all!"

A young, good-looking, blonde-haired, blue-eyed man strode through the crowd, holding a glass of wine in his left hand. He grinned roguishly at Sherlock.

"My friend from the billiard halls. Saved me forty pounds," he said, holding out his hand. Sherlock put on a practiced smile and gripped his hand.

"Hello, Wilson. Good to see you again."

Wilson heartily shook his hand—

Then he caught sight of Molly.

His eyes widened. And Sherlock _saw _his pupils dilate.

"And…who is this?"

"Molly," Sherlock said. "This is Wilson Tombs."

Wilson gazed at her a moment—then, a totally different smile crossed his face.

"Good evening," he said quietly, holding out his hand to her. Molly let go of Sherlock to take it. The skin around Sherlock's eyes tightened as he recovered his balance. He watched.

Wilson brought her hand up and kissed the back of it. Molly beamed, and shyly ducked her head.

"Tell me your card isn't already full," Wilson teased her in a low tone, one eyebrow flicking. "I'd love to dance with you."

Her mouth opened.

"Ah, yes, my wife is terribly fond of dancing," Sherlock said frankly, clasping his hands behind his back. Wilson straightened up and turned to him—but didn't let go of Molly.

"Your wife?" His eyebrows went up. He turned back to Molly, released her hand, and ran his glance all up and down her figure.

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

"Lucky dog," Wilson declared, and winked at Molly.

She giggled.

Sherlock stepped into her and put his hand to the small of her back, steering her away from him.

"I _will _have a dance with you, Molly Holmes. Before the evening's out! Promise!" Wilson held up a finger. Sherlock turned the other way so Wilson would not see the look on his face as they walked the other direction. He glanced down at Molly.

She was blushing.

He blinked.

Why was she _blushing?_

That brainless twit hadn't done anything spectacular—other than act like a cad. What, look her up and down? Kiss her hand? Impolite, intrusive, presumptuous—

"Mr. Holmes!"

Sherlock almost jumped. He turned to his right to see Adam Tombs, a darker, more solemn version of his brother, offering a troubled smile as he approached, leading a slender, subdued blonde woman on his arm.

"Good evening. Glad you could come," Adam held out his hand. Sherlock shook it.

"This is my wife, Amelia," Adam gestured to her. Her blue eyes flickered up to Sherlock's for just a moment before wandering out to the dance floor.

"This is my…wife. Molly," Sherlock gestured to her.

"It's a pleasure," Molly said, reaching her hand out to Amelia. Amelia, a little surprised, took it.

"Isn't this room the most beautiful thing you've ever seen?" Molly asked brightly, smiling at both Adam and Amelia. "It's stunning! The lighting is perfect—and the music sounds like it's coming from everywhere at once!"

"Oh, I'm so glad to hear you like it!" Amelia said earnestly, putting a hand to her heart.

Sherlock looked at her, startled.

"We had to change venues at the last moment," Amelia explained. "We had another venue entirely booked and then they had an accident—some sort of electrical fire—and we were lucky to find another place at all, let alone one that would hold all the guests!"

"My wife has done all the arranging," Adam explained.

"Oh, I think it's lovely," Molly declared seriously, then glanced around. "Just right for all these people—and I've always liked an older ballroom best!"

"Yes, isn't this hotel charming?" Adam said. "The facade almost completely survived the bombings during World War Two…"

And Sherlock, though he had no idea how it had happened, found himself merely a spectator to a lively and informative discussion between Molly, Amelia and Adam. Soon, an older couple who proved to be Adam and Wilson's maternal aunt and uncle joined the circle, and Molly somehow turned the conversation to—of all things—the differences between the two brothers. Their hobbies, their educations, their talents, their recent endeavors, their current business. From this, Sherlock gleaned that Adam was indeed the more responsible one—charitable, intelligent, top of his class and successful in business; and Wilson was the playboy, sociable, friendly, and very bright, but less driven—unless someone told him that he could not accomplish something. Personality portraits of each man fleshed themselves out within moments in Sherlock's mind—he easily could have written a book about each one if he had cared enough—and he didn't have to do anything but listen.

And all the while, though he only interjected one or two comments, Molly never left him out of the conversation. She would often glance up and meet his eyes when making a remark, or absently touch his arm when she was laughing, as if sharing the joke with him. Thus, the other members followed her lead, and also looked at him, nodded at him. And never once did she draw attention to the eldest Mr. Tombs' sickness, or introduce any discussion about his terminal illness, or anything morose or dreadful in the least. Initially, he had almost cut in once or twice, to drive the conversation in a more interesting direction—but the next moment he found it would flow there naturally, anyway. He determined that, right now, the wisest course of action was to observe. However, the longer the conversation lasted, the less Sherlock could do anything but observe Molly's face.

Finally, the Adam's uncle drew himself up, and smiled.

"Well, we've taken up enough of your time," he decided. "Go, take this tall husband of yours out to dance. I can tell you would like to."

Molly dipped her head and blushed again.

"Go on, go on," the uncle urged, patting her arm. "It's been a pleasure talking to you."

"Thank you, Mr. Brown. So nice to have met you," Molly answered. "You too, Mrs. Brown—we'll see you later, I'm sure, Amelia. Adam."

"Oh, yes, we'll be over by the refreshments," Adam beamed, looking happier than he had when he'd approached. And the two couples left Sherlock and Molly near the edge of the dance floor.

"Well," Sherlock said, looking out at the spinning couples. "Shall we?"

"Shall we what?" Molly glanced up at him, her brow furrowing.

"Our host has commanded us to dance," he said. "Now it's expected."

"All right," Molly said, smiling carefully. "Lead the way, then."

Sherlock cleared his throat, then offered her his arm. She took it. They stepped out onto the floor, amidst the others.

Just then, the orchestra began playing a different tune. Molly shot them a look, and laughed.

"What?" Sherlock wanted to know.

"It's…I know this. It's from…It's from _The Sound of Music_."

Sherlock looked at her, nonplussed. She stared at him.

"You _have _to have seen…It's the song Maria and the Captain dance to, at the party, out in the garden…The Laendler, or something…"

Sherlock shook his head once.

"Haven't had enough time to waste to warrant watching that film."

"It's not a waste," Molly said solemnly, looking right up at him. He watched her, saying nothing.

Then, his throat tightened as he suddenly realized what he had to do next.

He bit the inside of his cheek, stepped forward and slid his right hand around her waist.

She sucked in her breath, her eyes fixed on his.

He took up her slender right hand in his left. Her left hand found his right shoulder.

He stepped.

So did she.

And without a single hitch, they were dancing.

Sherlock had to catch himself, he was so shocked.

She followed him flawlessly. She stepped smoothly, gracefully, every angle of her body listening to his. In an instant, they mingled into the wide circle of other dancers, spinning with the easy, lilting ¾ of the music, Molly's skirt twirling out around her legs, brushing against his. The ballroom turned to a brilliant blur all around him as he gazed intently down into her face.

"What's the matter?" she asked, suddenly very grave. He looked at her sideways.

"Something is going on here," he said. "What do you know that I don't?"

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"You're not shy."

She blinked. A reflexive smile crossed her lips, and she glanced away.

"I am sometimes."

"No. You'd never met any of those people before," Sherlock said, swirling them in a quick spin as they turned a corner and swept up the other side of the room. "But you talked to them like you were old friends. Pulled information right out of their heads, without even trying. How?"

She shook her head.

"I _wasn't _trying—"

"And in all my experience at St. Bart's," Sherlock said, increasingly suspicious. "You've hardly been able to get three words out one after the other."

"Well…you've never seen me when I'm not with you," she answered.

That was an irrefutable argument, he had to admit.

"You can waltz," he accused instead.

She looked up at him.

"I…tried to tell you before," she said. "My dad was in the military. After my mum died, when I got old enough, he would take me to all of their fancy dinners and dances. Sometimes I didn't know anyone there at all. But I always found something to talk about."

"And your father taught you to dance," Sherlock realized. Molly nodded.

"And the other officers."

Sherlock studied her face. She didn't turn away.

"Both of your parents are dead." He said it more quietly than he'd intended. She took a tight breath, then nodded again. Her bright brown eyes shone.

The music shifted. Slowed a little, and changed. Molly's attention twitched toward the orchestra, and she smiled briefly.

"That's a pretty version of _Edelweiss_," she murmured. Sherlock glanced up, over the heads of the other dancers, to see a solo violin playing, the orchestra providing a sweet background—and heard the gentle, longing strains of melody waft through the room. He swung Molly around, turning another corner, keeping pace with the others.

"So…who taught _you_ to dance?" Molly wondered. Sherlock looked down at her.

"My mother," he replied, then smirked. "She was determined that both Mycroft and I would become the best of gentlemen." He shook his head. "Unfortunately, despite her best efforts, she did not succeed with me."

"I think she did."

Sherlock's attention caught upon her face again. His smirk faded and disappeared.

"What was her name?" Molly asked softly, attending to him just as closely. He swallowed, then swallowed again.

"Violet," he answered—and his voice was not steady. Molly quietly smiled.

"That's a pretty name. Was she a pretty lady?"

Sherlock gazed into Molly's eyes.

"Very."

Molly hesitated, then smiled again—more genuinely.

"I suppose you look like her, then, and your brother looks like your father?"

"I'm told…" Sherlock paused and adjusted his hand on her waist, inadvertently pulling her a little closer. "I am told I inherited her eyes."

This seemed to please Molly—though he had no idea why. In fact, every movement of her face, and every question out of her mouth tonight had mystified him completely, distracting him from Adam and Wilson and the bracelet and the whole case and everything else.

_Blast it, John, this is all your fault…_

Molly said no more, and neither did Sherlock. As the music built and filled the ballroom, they stepped closely, whirling and swaying as one figure, never missing a beat, and never looking anywhere else but at each other.

And as they danced, the beauty of the music washed over Sherlock—the violinist played with such purity that it burned him with envy—and yet it swept him away. And the feel of Molly's soft, slender form curved up against him, her graceful fingers held within his, her twinkling earrings, and that singular stray curl of hair that brushed against her flawless neck…

And the way her face tilted up toward his, her sparkling eyes gazing into his own, the way she knew where to move without a word from him—as if her whole being was attentive to his.

No one had _ever_ listened to him with such eloquent silence.

The dancers formed a single line in the circle, and upon every third set of steps, the gentlemen twirled the ladies out, then stepped back in to embrace them. Sherlock, catching this change right  
away, seamlessly followed suit.

_One, _two, three; _one, _two, three—

And he let go of her with one hand, and spun her away from him. Her skirt flared, her graceful form twirled—

And Sherlock stepped into her, closing the gap—

For just an instant, their noses were inches apart.

His throat closed. But he managed not to stumble.

Again—_one, _two, three; _one, _two, three—

This time, she grinned like a little girl, her earrings like fairies next to her cheeks. And when he put his hand to her waist again, he slid it even further around, pulling her nearer.

Again.

_One, _two, three; _one_, two, three—

She laughed as she spun.

And Sherlock…

He felt himself smile.

And when she came back into him—she saw it.

And all the while, that tight feeling in his chest grew.

But somehow, this time, it did not feel uncomfortable.

The orchestra faded back. The single violin sang out again with aching tenderness, hushing the crowd, stealing Sherlock's breath.

Their steps slowed. The music stopped. So did they.

Everyone else applauded the orchestra. Sherlock hardly heard them.

He and Molly stood just as they had been, with his hand clasping hers, his other hand around her waist. He felt her take a deep, shivering breath—saw color rush to her cheeks. Her steady gaze flickered. Sherlock's attention wandered across her features, then lighted on her mouth.

And all at once, a powerful impulse overpowered him—an impulse to do something reckless and foolish—

"Beautifully done! What a splendid dancer you are, Molly—even with a bean-pole like this for a partner."

Sherlock's mind jolted sideways. He tore his gaze from Molly and turned to his left…

To see Wilson Tombs striding toward them. He winked at Sherlock.

"Oh, come now, I'm only joking," Wilson laughed, slapping a hand down on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock had to bite back the urge to slap _him_.

"Oh, no, I'm not very…" Molly began breathlessly, touching her fingertips to her forehead. Sherlock let go of her and took half a step back.

"Mind if I steal your wife?" Wilson faced Sherlock.

Sherlock's jaw clamped again—but then, the reality of the utterly stupid thing he had been about to do dawned on him, and he turned cold. He drew himself up, and leveled a look at Wilson.

"Be my guest," he offered. "Dance with her as much as you like."

And he turned away without a backward glance at Molly.

He slipped to the side, around to the other side of the pillars and in front of the chairs where people sat resting. He heard the orchestra begin to play again—Dmitri Shostakovich's "Second Waltz," to be exact. He wove through the crowd, and found his way to the refreshment table as the powerful, edgy Russian pulses propelled the dancers round and round the dance floor.

He stopped in front of one of the white-clothed tables and picked up a glass of punch, then sipped the tangy, fizzy liquid hastily, his eyes flying over the crowd. Swiftly, he assessed all of the nearby guests' professions and personal habits according to their appearance and mannerisms, stretching and flexing his brain, banishing all that fuzzy paralysis that had invaded moments ago. He gulped down his punch, then took up another glass.

"Holmes."

He didn't have to glance to his left to know that it was Adam Tombs who had approached, without his wife.

"Adam," Sherlock growled.

"Well?" Adam asked, stepping closer to Sherlock's shoulder. "What do you think?"

Sherlock lifted his chin, and looked over his glass at the dance floor. His eyes instantly found Molly, in the arms of Wilson Tombs. They moved like professionals on a stage, elegant and easy—and Wilson talked with Molly, grinning and effortlessly twirling her so that her skirt bloomed and her earrings twinkled.

_Your brother is a nuisance. A pig and a cur, if those two animals can exist in the same body without causing an abomination that would offend every sensibility on earth—which I doubt they can, but nevertheless, there he is._

Sherlock almost said it. But then, as he thought of it, he decided that didn't make much sense. So he said something else.

"Your brother is a narcissistic rake, a womanizer, and is immensely selfish and self-absorbed," he replied flatly. "He also prefers staying up until three or four in the morning, rising at around eleven o'clock in the morning, having breakfast and lunch in the same meal—along with wine. He plays tennis fairly well; golf exceptionally and poker dreadfully. He also had a beloved dog when he was younger that died tragically, and he hasn't truly cared about anyone or anything since."

"But did he steal the bracelet?" Adam hissed. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at Wilson and Molly.

"I cannot be certain at this stage," he replied.

"Oh, come now," Adam scoffed. "Who else could it be? I am telling you, Holmes, that bracelet isn't worth _half _of some of the pieces he's been given. He just wants it because he cannot have it! That's been the way with him all his life, without fail! It's forbidden, so he wants it."

Sherlock turned and squarely faced Adam.

"Then if you're so certain, why don't you just call the police and have him arrested?"

Adam's mouth worked for a moment, then he shook his head.

"I don't have the evidence—"

"Precisely—so, have you been able to search his apartment?" Sherlock pressed.

"No—he won't let me anywhere near it—"

"Can you somehow arrange for _me _to search it?"

"I don't see how—"

"Then let's not jump to conclusions just yet," Sherlock declared. "One must never twist facts to suit theories. That becomes a mire almost instantly, and we want to avoid _that_, don't we Mr. Tombs?"

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock turned to see Amelia, Adam's wife, hurry up to him, her brow furrowed.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"You…Did you let your wife dance with Wilson?"

"I did," Sherlock answered. "What's the problem?"

Amelia gasped, glancing around. Then she reached out and gripped Sherlock's arm.

"You should not have done that," she whispered urgently. "Your wife's so pretty and innocent—she won't…You don't know what Wilson's like when he's really determined!"

"What can possibly happen on a dance floor?" Sherlock demanded.

"They're not on the dance floor," Adam realized.

Sherlock's head jerked up. He swept the crowd with his gaze.

In half an instant, he realized Adam was right.

"Excuse me," he snapped, and pushed past them toward the far doors.

_To be continued…_

_Review!_


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